Sad Clown
by Blackjack Gabbiani
Summary: Harleen Quinzel is plagued with the memory of her patient Jack Napier, and reflects on the events leading to his death *movie timeline*
1. Sweet Sorrow

Sad Clown  
  
Blackjack's notes--Wow, this is an old one! I wrote this one about 6 years ago, before I had a clear understanding of what 'fanfiction' was. It's based on the movie timeline, so how to fit Harley in when Joker's been dead since the first one? Well, this is what I came up with. Aah, it's interesting retyping this. I should get back into the old fandoms some more.   
  
Chapter One--Sweet Sorrow

  
  
The large bells of the cathedral toned to the sleeping city that it was midnight. No one was awake enough to care. No night owls stirred their coffee while watching stand up comedians on the late shows. No preadolescent girls stayed up late at sleepovers, giggling over their teenybopper magazines. No college kids cross-dressed for a night at the Bijou and their favorite B-movie. This was a night for restful quiet, for sweet dreams, for curling up with your loved one.

The young woman standing alone in the middle of the street had no loved one. She paid no attention to the yowling cat scratching at the locked door of a deli, or to the playful pigeons in the street ahead of her. She only stood, and stared at the bells.

_People said he was a madman,_ she thought, _but who isn't these days?_

In her line of work she saw a lot of madmen. She was a doctor at the most famous mental institution in the world, and she saw many a tragic case come through the steel gate in which was etched the words "Arkham Asylum". Most people responded well to therapy, but some...She shook her blonde head. No use dwelling on the past.

_You always dwell on the past, Harleen. Why should now be any different?_

She didn't want to walk forward. She knew she would be given grief by what she would find there, but her long legs moved her ahead to the cracked spot in the pavement. He had fallen to his death on this spot, caught by the leg while climbing the ladder to his helicopter. Tantamount to murder, in her mind.

Gotham had kept the cracked cement as an account of the maniac who had terrorized the city. A sick, sick way of remembering, like making the threater where Dillenger was shot a historic spot. _Whoever thought this one up should be locked up--they're sicker than he ever was!_ A monument to a reign of terror--but did they ever consider the feelings of those who knew him?

She had first met him only a few weeks after her employment at the asylum had started. She was struck by how...*calm* he always was. But that wasn't the only thing that caught her attention. He was tall, with piercing eyes that seemed to change color in varying light. _If eyes are the windows to the soul, Jack Napier had his blinds drawn._ Even in such expressive eyes, he kept his emotions well hidden.

He had been very suave, and always seemed to know the right thing to say. No one else could cheer her up like that. No one else had ever, in her entire life, made her laugh and had her mean it. When he burst out singing "Make 'em Laugh" during a session, doing all the Donald O'Connor dancing and pratfalls, she laughed till she cried, and he reached over and wiped the tears away with the handkerchief he kept in his shirt pocket.

"True comedy hurts to hear, but it brings you back for more," he told her. She was supposed to think that statement insane, nothing but mad ravings, but...she didn't. Why would she think it insane when it was so true? Maybe it was strange, but she saw nothing wrong with Jack Napier. He was smart, witty--inappropiate at times, but no more than most people--and oh so handsome! The only oddity she could find was that his hands were always cold. "Cold hands, warm heart," he told her, and she believed it. He had never given her reason not to believe it; so she signed his release forms and sent him on his merry way.

What happened next went beyond every imagining she ever could have had. 


	2. The News and Revelation

Sad Clown  
  
Chapter Two--The News and Revelation

  
  
About a week after he had been let out, she sashayed around her apartment humming the odd little waltz he often sang. Beaming, she picked up the paper. There, on the front page, was a story about a robbery at the First Bank of Gotham. The gang behind it was led by Jack Napier.

She gasped, all flights of fancy gone from her, and dropped the paper. _But he assured me he was never going back to that life! He told me the underworld was...well, under him!_

He evaded police for so long, it seemed they would never catch him. Then, the ultimate tragedy struck.

Three a.m. She would never forget that phone call. "Harleen!" This was her superior, Joan Leland, calling.

"Mmm?"

"Harleen, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Here, she sat upright, fully awake. "What is it, Joan?"

A long pause, then "There was a blown heist at Axis Chemicals. The gang leader...fell into a vat of acid..."

"Huh?" She didn't quite know what this had to do with her. Not at first. But as soon as she said it, she knew.

"...It was Jack Napier. I'm...sorry kiddo. I know he was your most important case..."

She couldn't answer. Jack Napier, dead? It was too much. She hung up without a sound, and tried to sleep. Maybe it was a bad dream, maybe it wasn't real. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, for hours, until the *thwack!* of a newspaper hitting the door startled her.

It was the top headline. "MOB BOSS NAPIER PRESUMED DEAD," it read. The article went on to give a description of what had happened, a bit of his history, the usual things. One line stuck out. She didn't know who had said it; it was attributed to only 'a friend of Napier's', but what he said hit hard and deep.

"Napier was insane. He was out of control. Whoever let him out is an imbecile and should have their doctorate revoked."

She fell back limply onto the couch, the paper falling from her hands. Was it really her fault that her favorite patient was dead? The headline said 'presumed', but there was no way anyone could survive that.

Despite the grief, she went into work that day. No one was hostile or bitter towards her, like the man in the paper had been. Maybe it was because he didn't know her, couldn't put a face to a name he didn't know.

The next day was similar. Uneventful, with the girl paying rapt attention to every news broadcast to see if they had found his body yet. Maybe it had dissolved in the acid. She didn't know, and seperated herself from trying to think of it.

The third say she didn't care any more. Dr. Leland had told her it wasn't her fault, that if he had faked sanity, he had been such a skilled actor that no one could tell his lies from facts. Leland assured her that the other doctors had been taken in as well, that Harleen wasn't alone. Maybe she could have done something, but it was too late, and there were patients now who needed her care.

That third day, she chanced walk into the doctors' lounge on her lunch break, eager to catch back up with her favorite soap, "Days in the Lives." A small group of other doctors were gathered around the tube watching it already, so she sat down with some fellow first-years. Just as Strawberry was about to announce what she would do with her lottery winnings, the screen was dominated by the face of a local anchor. Groans came from the room as the man began to speak.

"A mob kingpin is found dead in his Gotham home, and police suspect an inside job."

She listened to the report, chewing passively on her ham sandwich. There was security camera footage, and the viewers were going to see it, the usual things. The tape showed a grotesquely painted man--no doubt to disguise himself--entering the kingpin's study. Shouting and shots were heard. The tape cut to the man's emergence from the room.

_He looks familiar,_ she thought, _so why can't I place him?_

As he walked down the hall, he saw the camera. Rather than try to conceal himself, for he was unrecogniziable, he turned his hideously white face to the lens and grinned, doing a bit of soft shoe. He whistled an odd little tune--a waltz.

She spat out her soda. That tune! There was only one other person who knew it! The perverse dance in three-quarters' time was undoubtedly Jack Napier's! 


	3. EncounterProposal

Sad Clown  
  
Chapter Three--Encounter/Proposal

  
  
"Harleen? Harleen, are you all right?"

She shoved Dr. Leland out of the way and ran out of the building. Good, no one had followed her. She had had a similar episode the day that the headlines were spread across the papers; maybe no one noticed she was crying, either. She sat in her car, hands draped over the wheel. Why did she feel this way? Was it because she knew he was alive? Why was she crying? Because she knew that she had not helped him? That he had lied to her? So many things...all at once...

The skid marks her new car made were over an eighth of a mile long, from her parking space with the brass plate marked "Dr. Quinzel" to the wrought-iron gates of the asylum. There was no one on the road, thank god. No one could see her speeding blindly down the winding way to the city. Why did she still care? He was a fascinating case, yes, but she could read all the cases she wanted. This was something else, something she had never felt before. Could it be? No, she couldn't let herself think that she may--

She screeched into the parking lot, ran to the door and up the stairs to her apartment. Flinging open the door, she threw herself on the couch and wept. Why did she feel like this? Absently, she reached for a tissue.

But wait. Hadn't the tissue box been across the room? What...?

Her sight followed, from box to gloved hand to purple sleeves, up to ghastly white face. His mouth was drawn up into a hideous grin, with bright red lips contrasting the tufts of green hair peering out from under his purple hat.

"Hello, Dr. Quinzel. Miss me?"

No...it couldn't be...

He read the look in her eyes. "It's me, doctor. Your favorite patient."

She stammered, her mind racing. "But...but...your face..."

"Ah. You thought I never fell in the acid? You heard I was alive and though I had faked it, didn't you?" It had never occured to her, but he did not wait for a negating answer. "No human could survive that, you thought. Well, as it turns out, some of my old chemical experiments made the acid unable to dissolve me."

He paused, like an actor mentally reviewing his lines. "But it changed me, Dr. Quinzel," he whispered.

Trying to avoid the sight of that smile, she said the first thing that came to mind. "You mean...that makeup...you...really look like that?"

He laughed, more of a high-pitched giggle than a normal laugh. "As the kids say, 'well DUUUUH!'"

His impression of a vally kid never failed to bring a smile to her face, and now was no exception. She giggled along with him, but quickly stopped.

"Answer me one thing, Napier," she demanded, using all her professionalism. "Did you really kill that man?"

He drew a long breath. "I knew you would ask me that, Dr. Quinzel. Yes. Him among many, many others."

She stifled a gasp. Something in her didn't believe him; thought he had to be testing her reaction. So she had to remain calm, no matter what he told her.

Chuckling, he continued. "You didn't know? Oh, don't worry. I could never bring myself to harm a child like you. Children yes, but not one like you. Little girls like you...just the type who love clowns like me!"

She felt weak. Here he was in front of her, alive, confessing his crimes--or at least his imaginings--and enjoying it all. "Why...did you come back to me...?"

"Oh?" He looked shocked. "But, Dr. Quinzel, couldn't you turn that around and ask why NOT you? You do know why I killed that man, don't you? He's the one who called you an imbecile, dear doctor."

Her hand gripped the couch arm, knuckles white with tension. "So that...that's why...?"

He waved his hand, dismissing it. "That and he set me up. But rest assured that his insulting you was a great motivating factor. For you see, doctor, I have always admited you. I've followed your career from day one. I have what you might call an obsession. I always make it my business to know everything about people I admire."

"Oh, Jack..." She still couldn't believe what was happening.

"No. Not Jack. Not Jack Napier ever again."

"Then what...?"

"You'll see. Dr. Quinzel--may I call you Harleen?" She nodded. "Very good. Harleen, I have come to ask you something. Something of utmost importance. I want you to help me bring Gotham to her knees."

The gasp she had held back escaped her lips, and her fingernails dug into the couch. "What...?"

"I know you heard me. I am assembling an army, of sorts. All kinds of lowlives, degenerates...the scum of society. But such kinds must be lead by someone high above them. They need a king--me, of course--and a queen. Queen Quinzel. Nice, huh? Queen Harleen...quite a ring to it, _non_?" She nodded blankly, the weight of his words heavy in her mind. "Oh, I know, what about your job? What about your friends? What...if you refuse? Well, forget your job. You'll live in riches forever with me. Your friends? Hate to break it to you, _HARL_," here his voice got very bitter "but you have no friends." It was true, she was quite alone. Perhaps he was the only person who could claim to understand her. "And if you say no...well, quite frankly, you don't want to know. I myself would rather not know." He leaned down to meet her gaze, and picked up a pillow. "Do we have a deal?"

She suddenly remembered something, and shook her head to break whatever spell he had on her. "What about Alicia?"

In a violent rip, he tore the pillow to shreds. "ALICIA?!?! That BIMBO?!?! You expect _HER_ to rule at the side of the--" He cleared his throat, regaining his composure.

"The...what?"

Gloved hand ran through green hair, purple hat settling further back on his head, as he fixed that smile on her. "The greatest criminal mastermind Gotham has ever known. You're not ready yet. I shall ask again, in a few days. For now, I have to leave. Remember--'Neither the angels in Heaven above/Nor the demons down under the sea/Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful'" his eyes twinkled "Doctor Harleen Quinzel. Fare thee well, my Harlequin."

She watched him leave down the fire escape. _My god,_ she thought. _So he does feel the same way for me that I--_ What? What was this? She knew all too well.

She was in love with him!

Something on the windowsill caught her eye. Picking it up, she saw that it was a playing card. A grotesque white face, with crimson lips drawn up in frighful grin, and hair so green as to make her think that there was no such color, that all other greens were in cheap imitation of this; all this stared back at her with hypnotic eyes.

The Joker. 


	4. Clown of Death

Sad Clown  
  
Chapter Four--Clown of Death

  
  
All that week, she read about his many crimes--poisoning cosmetic items, killing everyone in a museum with laughing gas and trashing the place--so many deranged acts that she thought were merely distorted fantasies of his.

Why had he come to her? She had only been his doctor. He had had several doctors there, including Leland, so why come to Harleen Quinzel? Was he really in love with her? He had told her about his affair with Alicia, but what did he really feel for her? Anything at all?

Alicia's obituary answered that. Napier--or whoever he was now--was truly a devil. He had scarred her face with acid to create a living work of art. Living art, though, must die. Alicia's end came when she noted he had left a window open, and jumped. Down twenty-five stories, but she would never have to deal with him again. She had said in her note that all other examples of his 'living art' would consign themselves to similar fates and he would have nothing left, but he paid no heed.

_Of course,_ the doctor thought. _He considered death an act of art. That's why he trashed the museum...he thought by 'killing' the works, he was improving them..._

How could she have been so blind? He was obsessed with all forms of art, and was very skilled at most of them. Why didn't it occur to her that acting was one of them?

Too late now. What really happened at the chemical plant? Why did he return to his old ways--or beyond them, as the case was. Had he really been set up? Why did he scar Alicia? What answer would she give him upon his return?

As fate would have it, she never had to answer him.

It was a few weeks later, on her day off. The Gotham 200-year anniversary parade had been called off because of Napier's--she still couldn't bring herself to think of him as "Joker"--torturing the city. Napier, however, had appeared on television promising the Gothamites that, if they came to his parade, he would pour twenty million dollars on the crowd. _Hypocrites,_ she thought. _Only out there because he promised them money. Don't they know he's dangerous?_ But why didn't the police do anything? She could see on the live coverage that there were no cops there. Why not? Had they fallen under his charismatic spell like everyone else?

Taping it all, she stayed in her apartment. She didn't know why she wasn't there; there for him. Maybe because she knew he would hurt people. Maybe he would spray gas on the croud. Maybe he would open fire. Maybe the money itself was poisoned. _Oh, the parade's starting..._

As she watched, his floats came around the corner. A crying baby, a monkey, a big interconnected "200", and--of course--a clown; huge balloons floated in the air. Several--probably near a hundred--of the 'army' he had refered to marched in the street among the floats. And there was Jack, impeccably dressed in a purple suit with an orange shirt, adorned with a pink flower, and flinging the money on the expectant onlookers. Grabbing a microphone, he announced...something, she couldn't quite hear due to the feedback...and his fixed grin widened. He was up to something.

Wait, what was that? What's that? A green cloud began eminating from the balloons--laughing gas!

The camera wavered on its tripod as the cameraman collapsed. All around, she could hear screaming and gasping as people tried, fruitlessly, to flee the scene. But her only thoughts were of him."Jack...Jack Napier...why...?" she whispered.

On the screen, the man in question pointed to the news camera, and one of his henchclowns retrieved it. "Close up!" he called, his request instantly granted. "Well!" he said to his audience, "I suppose you know by now that this city is doomed. You could have given it over to me at the start, but *NOOOOO*, you made me FIGHT for it! Well, how about you just say I've won and call it a day? Laughing gas maked me SOOOO light-headed!!!" With a giggle, he informed the clown to tape all of the chaos and death in the streets around them. "This is Joker, signing off."

She sat, watching, transfixed. What...? She waited through the desired morbid scenes, wondering. Why was he doing this? Why? Why had he lied to her? Why hadn't she seen that he was stark raving mad? She was one of the best and the brightest, why hadn't she seen through his charade?

And why did she still love him?

_How can you even think that, Harleen? Look at what he's done to all those people!_

But she was undeniably in love with him. 


	5. Sweet SorrowSweet Vengence

Sad Clown  
  
Chapter Five--Sweet Sorrow/Sweet Vengence

  
  
She watched as he called for his helicopter to pick him up at the top of the cathedral in ten minutes. The tallest cathedral in the world; no wonder it would take that long. _And who's that blonde he's got with him?_

For some reason, she was more angry at the blonde than at Jack. Who was she? Why was she with him? Why was he with her? What was he doing, fooling around on his "harlequin"? But she couldn't stay angry at him. _What has he done to me?_ was her last thought doubting his sincerity towards her, changing into _What is that hussy doing with my Jack?_

Ten minutes later, the helicopter arrived. She couldn't see the woman he entered with even move; from the distance and all; but something wrapped around Jack's leg, bracing around a gargoyle. What was that jade doing? At first he appeared not to notice, but when he started to climb the rope ladder, he found that he couldn't. He was caught.

The helicopter moved up sharply, dragging the gargoyle off the ledge.

And he fell.

She screamed.

The next morning, Dr. Leland had found her, still staring at the television, whispering "Jack" very softly. The TV dinner she had so casually popped in the stove the night before had flamed out, reduced to cinders. She never noticed.

She spent the night among her own patients, never sleeping, never even crying, only whispering his name over again.

Over a while, she improved, returning to her old job, helping numerous patients recover from similar traumas.

But she never really got over it. Not totally; never totally. If anything, she only learned to mask the grief and pain with happiness. But it was still there. There, boiling inside her like a volcano of rage. _Oh, no, not sweet little Harleen. Her, hide things from her fellow doctors? She wouldn't do that, not Harleen!_

_...maybe I don't want to be Harleen any more..._

The cat nuzzling her foot brought her back to the street. The pavement was still cracked--she never really knew why she expected it to be whole. She still, even years after, never really believed he was gone.

"I'll never forget you, Jack," she said aloud, frightening the feline. She had to avenge him...but how? Often, standing in front of the grim monument, she would ask herself that, never arriving with an answer, but tonight...

Tonight was different. Something he had said to her...what was it? When he quoted Poe? When he offered to make her his Queen? No, after all that...

The last words he had spoken to her.

_"Fare thee well, my harlequin."_

Harlequin...harlequin...the word reverberated in her mind like the cathedral bells, which were striking one. Harlequin...Harleen Quinzel...Harley Quinzel...Harley Quinn...

Giggling like he used to, she skipped home, singing an odd waltz...  
  


The End


End file.
